


Savant White

by OneTrueStudent



Series: Sketches [2]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:38:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5035921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneTrueStudent/pseuds/OneTrueStudent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All versions updated as of 10/29/2015.</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The city of Wilno sprawled over seven mountains in three quarters, the fourth having been destroyed. Outside the city the highlands of Leng rose to the west, and the lake of the Hyades settled in the south. The Kohg-Doon mountains got as far south as Wilno before dwindling into the treacherous hills of the lake country. Northwards they formed the immense Doon plateau, from which Leng was bizarrely distinct. Decent weather came from the east, as the mountains blocked all but the most horrifying storms. When these did come, they boiled over the mountains and poured down the passes without warning. Leng was a dim tower of inward facing peaks, huddled against the outside world. The Doon were lofty and grim. Somewhere past them all was the Fhysay, the endless northern sea, and it is said the glaciers on the north faces of the Doon were so thick miners dug for stone. 

Up until the Disagreement Wilno had been a round city on nine peaks. House Satyr ruled the south. Baroness Alyssa had married Satyr after the old Baron had died, about three hours later, and left his old home, House Royal, to her older brothers, the bastard twins. They ruled the west quarter of the city, tucked between the feet of Leng. Her younger brother, Duncton, had left earlier to establish House Duncton to the east. He'd build three causeways from the city to Low Wilno on the lakeside. Royal was the best fortified, Duncton made all the money, and Satyr held the seat of the Barony. They'd been peaceful for years.

Doctor Seth lived a row house in Satyr's quarter because the last occupant had deeded it to him in lieu of payment. It had been three houses that formed their own little block, a shared well between them, but the preceding owners had fallen into trouble, specifically cholera. Everyone had died. Dr Seth had moved in, ripped the place apart, done something very odd with the well, and was in the process of rebuilding the walls to form one decent sized manor. Currently it had one floor and three storeys of gaping hollow between the living area and the roofs. In some rooms without ceilings, one could look up to the bat-infested attics. Bats are terrible housemates. There was guano everywhere. Seth was trying to figure out a way to get rid of them when Satyr himself knocked on his door.

Seth opened it and halted, squinting at the Baron Consort. Satyr nodded politely. The big man was wearing armor, helmet tucked under his arm, and in one hand gripped the reins of his horse. Lord Satyr was nearly two meters tall, black hair, brown eyes, clean shaven, and generally unassuming expression. His cloak was purple as was his helmet crest, but his armor was old steel. He waited a moment and then nodded again. 

"Dr Seth," he said.

"Who are you?"

"Lord Satyr."

Seth blinked at him. "You look like him."

"One would hope so."

There was a bit of a pause.

"You're here to see me?" asked Seth.

"I am," agreed Satyr.

"You?" asked Seth.

Satyr blinked. "No, not for me. One of my liegemen, Hyrma Trui."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Collapsed. Sweating, pale face, cold skin."

"When?"

"Just now."

The doctor thought. "I'll get my things. Anything particular I should pack for?"

"He's a drinker," said Satyr.

"How big a drinker?" asked the doctor.

"You can see his liver through his shirt."

Seth frowned. "I'll pack for that too. My carriage is around the side."

The Baron Consort gave a faintly military nod. He swung back into the saddle and trotted halfway around the arc of the houses.

With him was a young man in similar metal, his less scarred. The young man was Roland Trui, nephew of the patient, and he was carrying a lance and Satyr's pennant. Satyr kept waving him up to ride beside him so they could talk.

"Are you sure you don't want me to talk with him, sir?" offered Roland.

Satyr shook his head. "Technically, he is my brother in law. Well, not technically. He is my brother in law. And he's prickly. We'll be extra polite and nip any feuding in the bud. A happy doctor is a healthy patient."

"Yes, sir, but he's not very respectful, sir" said Roland.

"He's a pissy little shit," agreed Satyr. "But my honor can survive Seth squinting at me instead of bowing."

"As you say, sir."

That's a lot of sirs, thought Satyr. I'm an entire officer corps by myself. 

The carriage house was an inset garage with double doors. The first began to swing open but screamed to a halt on coarse hinges. Satyr and Roland tapped their horses so the chargers sidestepped out of the way, but that wasn't the problem. Seth had his back to the big door and was heaving at it, turning red.

Satyr dismounted, handing Roland his reins, and wrenched the door open. He moved quickly. The little doctor tried to go to the second door, but Satyr preempted him. "I'll handle it. You get ready to drive. We're burning daylight."

The doctor was built like a jockey. He weighed about half what Satyr did and was less than shoulder height on him. He had very small hands with long fingers and soft skin. Seth wore short, scruffy hair that looked like he cut it himself. His hansom was ready and the horse strapped in, but Satyr had the doors opened and chocked before Seth finished fussing with the reigns. Seth drove out and said something to Roland, who would be leading the way to break traffic. Roland nodded with a rough imitation of Satyr's attitude.

"So we can leave when Satyr's done-" Seth was saying when the Baron Consort interrupted. 

"I'm ready."

Satyr was mounted and trotted up next to them.

Seth squinted at him. "Did you shut the carriage house?"

"And set the drop locks on the doors," Satyr agreed. "Roland, lead."

"I suppose we are ready to go, then," said Seth, and Roland was already going. 

The squire went first, Seth second, and Satyr rode behind so people didn't catch a ride on the back of the hansom. It was trick riding to stay back but not get splattered by the carriage wheels, and as they went Satyr noted the parking brake was incompletely disengaged. He reset it with his lance. Some people waved and a few called, but most said nothing. Someone offered him an apple. He took it and ate while they rode, waving off the kids who would try to poach a ride even under his eyes. They would leap in, he'd smack them with the lance, and they'd flop to the road. He tried to make them flop into horse dung. Their injuries somehow never compelled them to fall that carelessly. It was a good apple, southlands probably, imported from beyond the lakelands. Satyr made a note of the apple seller's location. 

 

House Satyr, the building not the institution and properly Garmen Manor, abutted the southernmost apex of Wilno. One of Leng's feet, a double kol of naked stone that refused to let trees flourish, came down to the crest of Mt Attaxis (Translator's Note: Wave Sister Mountain) carrying with it the river Aph. Aph ran bitterly chill in the summer and froze solid between late fall and spring. From the southern facing cliffs of Attaxis, it plunged into the ravine of Garmenguile from whence it did not return. Wilno was walled there to prevent the push of builders to begin hanging over the edge. It had been done before and many people had died. Now the wall ran from freezing Aph to Duncton's quarter, with immense Garmen Manor standing over the cataract. 

Roland lead the way to the front gate and grooms rushed forward to help him down. Seth parked behind him. Satyr was already on foot, stabilizing the hansom when Seth began to climb down, and the manor lord lead Seth up a broad ramp to the lower doors of Garmen Hall. They strode through the black stone halls with Satyr kicking up a rattle in every step. He took two flights of stairs at the same speed as the doctor and looked less winded afterwards. 

He brought Seth to a council chamber, office, receiving room, and small hall. It had high ceilings and narrow windows, and a table taking up most of the floor. Chairs had been pushed to waiting positions by the wall. Across the table were spreads of paper, written in neat, efficient script. There was a sideboard with a thin variety of food and drink, but a great number of pens, quills and ink, and more paper at the ready. The sick man had been moved to the old Baron’s chair, a huge reclining thing that dwarfed the fat man sitting in it. A couple dozen bureaucrats and officials were in the room. 

Seth put his bag on the desk, stood over the patient, and examined him with intense, almost hostile eyes. Someone introduced him as Hyrma Trui, but the doctor didn’t react. Trui was elderly, overweight, and only partially awake. His eyes were puffy and bloated, and his lips and fingertips were pale. He was wearing rich clothes, well cleaned and tailored. They flattered him.

“Where was he sitting?” Seth asked over his shoulder.

Someone pointed. It was a spot like any other, near where the Baroness had sat. A small stack of papers were weighed down by a glass of amber liquid. The doctor sniffed the liquid and threw it out.

“The ladies need to leave,” he ordered while rinsing the glass clean.

“Seth,” Alyssa replied pointedly. “We will stay. Hyrma is my liegeman. I will be here to ensure he’s taken care of.”

The doctor glanced at her and shrugged. “Very well. Someone remove all his clothes. Hyrma, wake up and urinate in this,” and he handed the patient the empty glass. 

Half the attending crowd winced, and the rest looked excitedly from Baroness to doctor. Imminent confrontation loomed behind them while Satyr ground his teeth.

“Ma’am?” interrupted Hyrma. “Please humor an old man’s pride. Besides, if I need to be protected, your husband’s history on the battlefields is enough. It's a bit of pride but be swayed in this.”

The Baroness had remained stoic. “Very well, Hyrma. Retain your modesty.”

The patient thanked her, and the Baroness glanced to her husband, flicking her eyes from him to Trui. Satyr nodded reassuringly. Then she flicked her eyes warily from Satyr to the good doctor Seth, and Satyr nodded like it was absurd she even asked. Alyssa left.

“Now take your clothes off and piss in the cup,” repeated Seth with irritable impatience.

Most of the entourage left with the baroness. Satyr took a guard position by a door. The consort frowned. For a moment he considered Seth, judging him, and then turned to Roland. "Squire, act in my stead. Keep your uncle safe."

Roland bowed. Satyr smacked him on the shoulder, ringing metal, then joined his wife in the hallway. The rhythm of the building left them alone briefly, the wheat council since dismissed. 

"He's a nasty little man," Alyssa muttered. 

"Noticed that, did you?" inquired Satyr.

"Hush. It's important. Duncton's courting the Truis. He's promised to roll their import tax and sales taxes into one if they relocate to his quarter, and it would save them about a third of their tax bill. We'd lose more than half. We can't compete with him on price, but Duncton's business through and through. His quarter is a clock, and Trui only a gear. They'd be on their own. We got the Doctor Seth, the Baron's own son, my brother to treat Hyrma in his moment of need, and people remember that."

"Do they?" asked Satyr blandly.

"Don't be a cynic. They do. They may not act like it, but they do. Besides, even his attitude plays in our favor. As long as we're polite, we'll look better in comparison. If Seth can save Trui, we look good, and they'll remember us. If he can't, we sought the highest medical authority, and at least they'll remember that respect in their grief."

Meeting the Baroness for the first time, one would think she looked nothing like the doctor until suddenly the resemblance would hit like lightning. She was taller, and her face was softer. She didn't squint like he did, and her eyes weren't wrinkled. Her posture was better. The doctor slouched. Past that, they had the same eyes, the same nose, and the same deft hands. They both had a peculiar intensity to their movements. The Baroness would look to anyone nearby for strength, and she asked for help. In the hallway she unconsciously moved into Satyr's personal space. Dr Seth didn't do that. He stared at people and kept them at a distance. 

"I'm not being cynical, but you do know Trui isn't going to make it?" asked Satyr.

"You are being cynical," Alyssa chided.

"I'm not. I've seen people drink themselves to death before. It isn't pretty. Lots of people float down Aph, but I've never seen anyone swim up."

"That's why we got the doctor. Seth is a brilliant leach. There's a chance."

Satyr opened his mouth and shut it. Alyssa wasn't looking at him and didn't see him twice more bite back a reply. Finally Satyr said, "I'll go look in on them," and excused himself. 

Inside the two Trui boys had just finished helping Hyrma out of his clothes, and Seth was sniffing a small glass of fluid. He wafted it to himself, then leaned in close and sniffed. He glanced at Satyr for a comment, but the tall warrior waited and watched in silence. The good doctor turned back to the patient. 

“This will hurt,” he said to Hyrma. “You will feel a dull ache or tenderness. Try to ignore that. If you feel a sharp pain, a sudden splitting feeling, tell me at once. Understand?”

“Yes.”

The doctor put his thin fingers to Hyrma’s belly and prodded very gently. Hyrma hissed at first contact, but shook his head dismissively. Seth explored the edges of the abdomen and upper hips, pressing lightly on the bladder area, inducing the old man to quip, “I wish my wife gave me attention like that.”

No one laughed. 

“How long has this been distended?” Seth asked, indicating a point on Hyrma’s gut.

“How long have I been fat? Forever,” Hyrma replied.

“No, this.” Seth gently indicated a region by the stomach. “Feel the hardness and swelling? How long has that been like that?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Hyrma, and Seth shrugged. 

“Very well. You can get dressed now. Once he’s ready, the Baroness may rejoin us.” Seth rinsed his hands in water from the same sideboard as the drinks.

The pages helped Hyrma back into his clothing in silence, and the old man seemed about to ask a question but didn’t. Finally he could hold silent no more

“Doctor, a moment before the women rejoin us. Is it my equipment?”

“You mean your penis? No.” Seth looked at him like he was inspecting a bug. “How much do you drink a day?”

“Wine? A little, not much.”

“Three, four bottles?” Seth hazarded. 

“What? No, not nearly that much.”

“You’re lying, but it’s irrelevant. Trui, you drank yourself to death. Your liver has failed. It isn’t filtering your blood.” Seth’s face could not be more disinterested.

“What?” the old man whispered, and the squire yelled it. Seth looked between them and saw the family resemblance. 

“Seth,” interrupted Satyr, lowering his voice. He spoke softly. “Be gentle.”

The good doctor was silent, and then lowered himself to a nearby chair. The black-robed doctor interlaced his fingers on his lap. 

“Between your coloration, the composition and smell of your urine, and the feel of the inflamed, distended liver there isn’t any doubt. I’m not sure how you kept going this long. You’ve probably been in pain for some time but have ignored it, likely through drink. It’s too much. You’ve drank yourself to death.”

“But- I’m still walking,” pleaded Hyrma, and Seth waved him off. 

“You're done. These are your options. First,” he ticked off one finger. “You can die. I have such drugs as will make your passing painless. You might see the sunrise tomorrow, you might not. I’d give you odds- a stag against the hounds. Skilled hunters. Maybe a sunrise after that. But if you drink alcohol you will die, and if you don’t drink, your body isn’t used to it and the shock will kill you. That’s choice one.” Seth held up his hand.

“What else?” asked Rotland the page. He was about eleven, growing fast, and big for his age. All the Truis were big. 

Seth inhaled and chose his words carefully. "Perhaps the Baroness should join us now."

Satyr flicked his eyes at the younger Truis to indicate one should get the Baroness, but they were clinging to Hyrma's chair with worried expressions. The tall man opened the door himself. Alyssa came in and stood beside him. 

"Dead man walking. Drank himself to death. These are his choices," Seth said, glancing at Hyrma. He held up one finger. "Drugs, painless death, two days, probably less."

No one spoke. Seth was unusually quiet himself, with his index finger pointing up into space, and a detached expression. He didn't look at anyone. Satyr thought he was nerving himself up to something. 

Seth continued, holding up a second finger and looking at Hyrma. “Or we can do sorcery. Black magic, I hear you call it, but there’s nothing black about it. I can keep you alive by artifice as I cut you open and slave your liver and heart with Obedience. Obedience Drives the Slave to Work,” Seth quoted the Hierophant’s Lore, but no one recognized it. “Magic will force you to keep going and drive your liver to function. You can even drink again.

“However, the rest of your body will have to pay the cost. The liquor's taken a toll of you, and eventually something else, typically the kidneys, will fail. Because the Obedience keeps driving, the rest of your body will try to pay to support your kidneys as well. The extra burden will cause other organs to fail. This will continue, though almost instantly. In effect as soon as the second organ goes, you’ll die. It will be swift and painless. You’ll have a month, maybe two, and in that time, you won’t feel any pain. In fact, you’ll feel better than you have in years. For a month, maybe two. You’ll have time to put your affairs in order, and perhaps finish a final work before the end.”

Seth paused, a visible break in his concealed thought, adding, “It’s a good way to go. Swift, clean, painless. You’ll be in almost perfect health until the end.”

Old Hyrma’s fingers made grabbing motions. Seth lifted the third finger.

“I will again keep you alive by artifice and open you up. But instead of slaving your heart and liver, I will put the Mending on them.”

The squire and page looked up at that.

Seth chose his words carefully. “There is a chance that driven by the Mending, your liver could repair itself. Your odds are about the same as you seeing a second sunrise without magic. But if so, the Mending will try to heal you.

“However the Mending is not a rune of great power and cannot be fit to any of the great constructs.” No one knew what he was talking about. “It is slow and subtle. Furthermore it is driven by Air and Earth, naturally opposed to fire-water or alcohol. You may not live at all, and if you do, you may never drink again. A single sip can, and probably will, kill you. You will need dispensation from the Baroness to toast her health with water at every new year. No small beer with breakfast. In fact, all your water should be fresh and boiled.”

“But how long?” asked the squire.

“Depends on whether or not he makes it through the first night. Once the Mending is on you, it will force your body to rebuild. Much like Obedience will drive you on, the Mending will keep your body healing. If you fix your diet, begin taking reasonable exercise, and never drink again, you could live for years. A decade.” Seth shrugged. “In fact, you’ll have a life ahead of you. If in ten years you fall off a horse, that’s no fault of the magic, and you aren’t getting any younger. But unless you die within a few days, you’ll be on the road to recovery.”

“A full mending,” the squire replied, and looked over at the elder Trui.

“But no alcohol,” Hyrma repeated.

“No. A single sip, and you’re dead. Instantly. Worse, later on, you may heal enough to endure one, and then think yourself cured. You’ll have a second, survive, a third, and drop like a midden sack. It will not be clean. You will be as you are now, but nothing can save you. You will suffer greatly before the end.”

“Doctor Seth,” interrupted Satyr again. “Gently.”

The prince rolled his eyes in aggravation but turned back to his patient. He ticked off their choices on his fingers. “One, go painlessly into the night now. Two, go suddenly into the night within a month. Three, maybe die now, maybe live for many years to come.”

The three Trui's looked at Seth, the younger two with hungry expressions, and the eldest scared. Alyssa could see the family resemblance.

“What’s your name, squire?” asked the baroness.

“Roland, ma'am,” he replied.

“Squire Roland Trui, I expect? You have the look of Valentine Trui in your face.”

Roland, who was sitting beside his uncle, leaned back as his lips fell open. His eyes went wide. Alyssa nodded.

“Valentine was a good man. Dead these last ten years, to our loss.” She looked at him critically, trying to measure the boy against a memory, and said, “You have some of his height, but not all yet. I never met your mother, but she must have been lovely to marry such a man. Your brow must be hers. Nose too, but your eyes could only be Valentine’s. Look at your uncle. That’s what your eyes look like, only under mild brows, not his stormhead. You raised a good man, Trui. He looks fit for his duties.”

“He’s too young for them,” Hyrma argued.

“They always are. I certainly was.” She looked to Seth. “Could you combine the two? Use Obedience to keep him alive, and the Mending to cure him?”

“No,” Seth declined. “Spells interfere with each other. I will already be using my powers to keep him alive through the surgery, and he can power only one of himself. If he powers two, the spells may fight for dominance, and that would not be helpful.”

“Then can you switch from one to another?” she asked.

“Again, no. One cannot build a castle foundations on the ruins of another without clearing the stones, and annihilation inside the body is unhealthy.”

Satyr disliked the castle analogy. Such a thing could indeed be done. Arguing it would serve no purpose. 

“Must he chose now?” asked the baroness.

“He’ll be dead soon,” replied Seth. 

Alyssa did not rise to his words. “Do you have the drugs in your bag? Those for the pain? Or the equipment for the surgery?”

"Yes, but we can't do the surgery here."

"Can you give us a moment?" she pressed, abandoning pretense. Her brother scowled and stomped out. The baroness dismissed the pages.

“Hyrma Trui, this is your matter. Did it not involve sorcery written on your flesh, I would command you take the third option. We have work to do, and your burdens are not light enough to put down because they tire you. However, as things stand, I will not command. I will ask. You are needed. There is a tax matter on the desk half unwritten.” She placed her fingers on the bill in question and spun it. “You must speak to your liegemen and prepare them. We have a festival approaching, and you have already accepted the yolk of bringing drink for it, drink you cannot now take yourself. That is a hard burden. Welcome to government. I require toil out of you, Trui, and for that I need you alive. Someone must accept the position of Crown Arbitrator, and that someone has work to do.”

She stared at him hard.

“But it requires sorcery, and thus I won’t command it. I will only request it. Please do not let me down.”

She indicated to Satyr that it was time for them to go, and the couple left. In the hallway she sent Hyrma's nephews in to speak with him. 

Her tall husband rested his hands on the sword hilt and waited.

“I did that wrong,” she admitted so no one else could hear. “I should have ended with his duty and praise for the strength he had already. Damn. I always think of these things a moment too late.”

“You can go back in if you want,” Satyr began.

“No. Never soften when you end strong. Then you wasted your time,” she chided him. She sighed and leaned against his arm. “It’s the risk of trying to be firm like that. You can’t fix it later. You get to appear confident, but you lose if you try to muddle about. You shouldn’t muddle after you finish something anyway, but it burns me when I think of a better ending as soon as a door slams behind me.”

The warrior smiled, and then picked her up so he could kiss her firmly. The baroness struggled a little, trying to push him away. “Satyr, put me down. My skirts are floating in the air.”

He smiled in her face. “No,” and when she complained because she wasn’t looking regal, he kissed her again. The baroness gave up that argument as being lost and kissed him back. 

Doctor Seth had gone to his hansom to find some bit of gear, but the stable-hands had taken it. He gave up looking for the stables. When he returned the Baroness was fussing at her husband in the hallway. Seth stomped a few times so they would stop their canoodling and trudged over.

"Let's talk payment," he said.

"All right. Talk," said Satyr.

"I want to use the Hammer of Intensity." 

Satyr froze. Baroness Alyssa waited, and when he didn't say anything, looked up at him. He had raised one eyebrow and stared at Seth. Seth was calmly demanding. The Baroness looked between them and felt suddenly out of place.

"Is that a place to start bargaining?" she asked her husband.

He didn't answer her. "Why would you want that?" he demanded of the doctor.

"To make something. Also, a forge, tools, quench bucket. Whatever is necessary."

Satyr began a nod, lifting his head, but stopped at the crest and stared down his nose at Seth. He thought for a long time.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he said to the doctor. "The Hammer doesn't require either forge or quench bucket. It makes its own heat. Whatever you work has to be cooled in ice mined from the caverns of Garmenguile."

"Yes, fine. But there are probably some tools necessary. Files or whatnot. Those." Seth snorted and dismissed the minutia of a lesser occupation. 

"That seems a high price for medical service," said Alyssa, trying to head off something she didn't understand.

"Then we'll stick to medical service. He'll be dead by morning. I'll dope him with laudnum whenever-"

Seth paused. He'd turned to his sister when she interrupted, but he looked back at Satyr. The doctor's eyes were flat.

"You've seen this before," he said to the tall warrior. "You knew it was his liver and knew what that meant."

"I was in a hard drinking unit under the Baron. I know what I'm about," said Satyr, expecting an argument. He was surprised when Seth agreed with him.

"Then you know how this ends. You know what happens when people drink like they're thirty years younger. You kids didn't care; half of you thought you'd die in battle by morning. You drank like you had no future. Well, you lived, didn't you? Do you want to see someone drinking like there's no tomorrow? He's in there. You want to pay doctor's wages? Fine. He'll be dead by morning."

A gentle cough intruded on them. All three turned to the door, where Rotland Trui, the page, was watching. "We wanted to know- You won't do the surgery?" he interrupted himself.

"Excuse us," said the Baroness. She smiled and then took her husband and brother into another room. This had been a sewing room, but it had poor ventilation. Now it was only used for storage. She dragged the two men in behind her, shut the door, and rounded on them both.

"You!" She glared at her brother. "You offered them surgery. Are you going to break your word and back out?"

"I said that expecting to get paid!" yelled Seth.

"Expectations are assholes, every jackass has one. Are you a man of your word?"

Seth looked at her for a moment and then carefully put on his gloves. "You don't understand the situation. With the Mending, he'll probably die by morning. It's a hard procedure. With Obedience, he'll die inside a month. Two months was almost uselessly optimistic. Your-" He searched for a word, didn't find one, and waved a finger furiously at her consort. "-here was intruding on my business. He demanded a gentle report. 

"Now you demand I cut him. Do you want me to? I will. He'll die. And every doctor in the city will confirm an old alcoholic that dies under surgery is just the way it is. God damn, look at him, Alyssa. His liver's swollen through his shirt!"

"Then we'll only pay you if he lives," said the Baroness.

"No. I'll pay the cost to perform the surgery whether he lives or dies. I'll only pay the Hierophant's price if you pay mine. The Hammer of Intensity."

Satyr overcame his earlier shock. Looking between his wife and her brother, he was reminded of his siblings. She wasn't standing up straight and regal any more, but leaning forward and hissing at him. The good doctor was leaning right back. They were about the same height and snarling with the excessive morality of children.

"Excuse me. I don't understand," said Satyr. When they didn't immediately pause, he simply stepped between them. He was like a mountain blocking winds. "You can't use the Hammer. No, I don't mean I won't let you. I mean you can't. It has an old weight of history and metal. It's beyond the heft of metal. Its metal weight is staggering, and the weight of its One Owner is worse, the old power on it. Doctor Seth, what good would it do you?"

"I'll hire someone."

"Doctor Seth- Do we have time? Can I show it to you, and explain why this wouldn't work? I feel like a damned prophet explaining why the future isn't clear, but I'm the one who hates riddles. Do we have time to go to the vault? You can't lift it, and if you did, you can't swing it. It would kill you."

Seth glowered at him. "Knight, I know the prices of power."

"No, I mean it will break your legs! Physically! If you swing it, it won't stop, and it will break your legs. That's why it's terrifying. Once moved, it won't cease until impact, and it won't turn in the hand. I'm not talking about the prices of power, I'm talking about the weight of iron smashing your flesh! Can we go to the vault?"

Alyssa had moved around him, but both of them looked at the knight. Their sibling fight was on hold. 

"How long would it take?" asked the Baroness. "To go to the vault?"

"It's in the depths and sealed, so we'd need to undo the seals-"

"Too long," interrupted Seth. "We've been here too long as it is. Trui needs to be dosed or moved to prep. I don't see your problem though. If it's dangerous, let the danger fall on me or my hired smith. If I die, it's not your problem. Fools pay for their foolishness. If I survive, then I've gotten a decent price. Either way, I don't see why you're so adamant."

The Baroness looked up at Satyr. He frowned and scratched his jaw with his gauntlet. 

"This is a terrible idea. We're paying prices we don't understand for black magic. If I'm a riddling prophet, I can assure you this won't end well."

Alyssa turned to her brother and smiled scathingly at him. "Would you excuse us for a moment? Thank you."

Seth muttered something and left. Alyssa rounded on her husband.

"He has us over a barrel. Trui's nephews heard him promise them hope. A chance is more important than success. You know Trui's going to die. Seth knows Trui is going to die, but his nephews think right now of hope. They think Trui has a chance. And we're on the hook for this. Did you negotiate a price when you met him?"

"No," said Satyr.

"Then it's done. He has the stronger hand. We have to have him, and he can tell us to swing a rope. Even if he needs the Hammer more than Trui needs to live, we don't know that, so he's in a position of strength. Now, can we let him use the Hammer?"

Satyr inhaled to give a long answer and held the breath. He distilled what he was about to say until it was one word. "Yes."

"Then he won, we lost, and we're going to lose with grace. You can't fake smile, so stay here. I'll tell him he can use the Hammer, and we'll work out terms. Are there any other surprises I need to know about?"

"No, it's pretty straight forward. He'll need a forge and our ice cutters, but a good sized block of ice runs for about a basket of apples. I'd rather we promise him whatever he needs so he stays in our forgehalls so we can watch him." Satyr shrugged, moving half his wife's weight in armor.

"So be it. Stay here." She looked hard at him. Satyr put his hands up in surrender. She left.

"Doctor Seth, thank you for your patience," she said in the hallway. Rotland and Roland were both in the doorway, listening. The Baroness smiled at them. "We, of course, will compensate you for any of the three procedures you listed to Hyrma Trui and his kin. We'll provide the Hammer of Intensity and a forgehall to use it, our full hospitality, so long as the Hammer itself never leaves Garmen Manor."

"Good," said Seth. He looked unhappy he won without a fight.

Alyssa turned to the boys. "What did your uncle decide?"

"He said he'd obey your will and take the Mending," Rotland said.

"Of course he did." Alyssa beamed at them, and then turned to Seth. "Handle it. Now boys, you know this is only a chance. Your uncle is very old and very sick. We have the best doctor in Wilno, but you have to be brave no matter what."

"I'm not five," muttered Rotland.

"We are the Baroness. Be respectful," she chastised the page. "Now, go help your uncle. Roland, I relieve you from your duties for the day to help your uncle. Rotland, you're still a page, so run, and we mean run, to House Trui and tell them what's going on."

Roland lead Seth back into the room with his uncle, and Rotland scowled at them.

"Run!" thundered Satyr, emerged behind Alyssa.

The boy eeped and bolted down the halls. The Baroness looked at Satyr suspiciously.

'I'm backing you up,' he mouthed.

"How very graceful of you," she replied.

"That's why you may call me Your Grace," Satyr said loftily.

"Your Grace is for counts, and viscounts with delusions of grandeur. You're a ruling Baroness' Consort. You outrank a Your Grace," said Alyssa.

"And that's why I keep you around," Satyr replied.

Alyssa rolled her eyes so hard she nearly fainted, and she walked off down the hallway, heading for a budget meeting. The consort stayed where he was.

"I think I won that one," he said to himself. "Me, one, Alyssa, five hundred or so, but I got one."


	2. Chapter 2

2

"Can we do anything about it?" asked Lord Duncton in his office.

"What do you want to do about it?" demanded Aurelius. "I can have Trui stabbed. That would ensure Seth fails. It wouldn't change anything, because Trui's going to die anyway. Everyone who isn't a Trui knows elder Trui isn't going to make it, but that means the Baroness and her brother can't fail."

"Perhaps a solution with less stabbing," suggested Duncton. The youngest of the old Baron's children drummed on his chest. "Is there anything we can do for Trui? Better doctors?"

"No, Seth is pretty much the best. Besides, it doesn't matter. Trui's not going to make it. Even if we had better doctors, we would only succeed in having our doctors fail in keeping Trui alive as opposed to Alyssa's doctors fail. Better she fail than us."

"No. Better Trui's family come to our quarter than stay in hers. We can underprice her all we want, but if they're loyal because she took care of Daddy when he died, we can't beat that with money." Duncton kept drumming on his chair. "This isn't good. Trui is huge. He's half the wheat import of the city, a third of the barley, and his fingers are plugged up in beer, wine, whiskey, and everything else. So long as the Trui's pay the Baroness's quarter taxes and her import and sales taxes, he escapes us unscathed."

"He has to pay causeway fees," said Aurelius.

"Everyone pays causeway fees. I can't raise those because then Alyssa will build her own. She'd do it now if she could get the funding. And I assure you she's looking for the funding. If I could take Trui's income, then no one will underwrite her, but she's looking."

"Well, unless you want me to start bleeding people, I don't know what you want me to do about it." Aurelius shrugged, sat down, threw his feet up, and relaxed.

"What's wrong with you? Were you raised in a barn?"

"Yes."

Duncton looked up. "You said you were an orphan."

"Orphaned in a barn. Very tragic. It's why I hate cows," agreed Aurelius.

"I weep for you," Duncton grumbled.

"Is he in bread?" asked Aurelius.

"Trui? Not directly. He imports by the caravan, and they resell to distributors, who resell to bakers. The distributors and bakers pay their own taxes, but they mix suppliers. If Trui's selling rye at a mark a bushel and Marlin's selling at a half mark, everyone goes to Marlin."

"Sounds like Marlin should do that."

"Then Marlin doesn't make a profit, he goes out of business, and Trui can sell at a mark and a half. Actually, none of that is true. They all sell within pence of each other, and their quality changes. They frontload their contracts per caravan. The front bushel sells for one price, but by the time they get to the back bushel, the quality isn't as good." Duncton looked up, catching Aurelius stare out a window. "That is an infuriating habit. Don't ask questions if you don't listen to the answers."

"I asked about bread. You're talking about frontloading wheat contracts."

"It's all connected," muttered Duncton. "The Hammer of Intensity. What is that?"

"Brand the Artificer's forge tool. Satyr brought it back from his travels when he wooed Alyssa. He keeps it in his vault."

"What does it do?"

"I can tell you what it doesn't do, and that's get stolen. Two people tried. Neither of them made it."

"Caught?"

"Killed. Rumor is they were dead when Satyr's guards showed up. Messy."

Duncton grumbled. "I don't see Seth striding around with a warhammer, smiting his foes."

"It's not a warhammer. It's a forge tool," said Aurelius.

"What's the difference?"

The Master of Spies tried to read Duncton like a card cheat. He got nothing. "They're totally different things."

"I thought warhammers weren't the giant flanged things you see in murals," Duncton said.

"They aren't." Aurelius sat up fully and put his feet down. "A warhammer can't be that heavy, because you'd get exhausted swinging it. But it's got to hit hard. So they typically have narrow, fine heads on long arms. It gives you the best lever. A work hammer typically has a short arm so you have the best control. The head shape is different depending on what you want to do. Woodworking hammers are usually light, while work sledges are huge. A good sledge looks like what you think a warhammer is. You could win a fight with one but not a battle, because you'd be exhausted. Best I can put together, the Hammer of Intensity is a small, blunt hammer, of the blacksmith's variety. Heavier than a carpenter's hammer, smaller and lighter than even a small sledge."

It's all connected, thought Duncton, and he pursed his lips. "Can you get anyone inside the forge?"

"Maybe," said Aurelius, and his feet went back up on the table.

"Make it a priority. Not top priority, but a priority."

"What's my budget?"

Duncton squeezed his temples. "Can't you fit it into your existing budget?"

"I'm doing things with my existing budget. What do you want me to stop doing?"

Duncton sighed. "Trui. Stop watching Trui. He's now just another of Alyssa's citizens. Fade off watching him and start work getting someone into Garmen Manor's forgehalls."

"That's not going to cut it," said Aurelius. "A fade off is slow, and if Seth moves fast, a fade on will take too long. It might take two years to fade an agent into the forgehalls. It can be done faster, but..." He trailed off, shrugging.

"And you need extra money to run the forgehall operation while you're fading off Trui," guessed Duncton.

"Sun's gold, not mud, for a reason."

"All right, I'll get you stop-gap funding. Put together a proposal, a few timelines, the usual." Duncton stared into space. Suddenly he twitched. "Are we still watching the DuCarte quarter?" 

"I've got observers on it," Aurelius said.

"Pull them out. No fade. Just exfil and reallocate. Use that to insinuate into Garmen Manor. Staggered operation, passive gathering at first, men in tap houses, you know it better than I, and begin the fade in. Prepare for long-term observation. We should have someone in his forgehalls anyway."

"That means we've got no eyes on the DuCarte Quarter." 

"Aurelius, everything's important. Eyes on the fourth quarter are important, but so's a new school, paving roads, plugging holes in walls and a bread line. You want to know how much money I pay Alyssa, via Trui, to run our bread lines? Everything's important, everything's connected. I'd rather keep the intelligence budget stable, but that means something has to get cut. Our usual people can ride by every day or week and look down the hole. We don't need assets on it."

"We may need assets elsewhere more, but I've never seen a problem we didn't need assets on."

"And I've never had an agency chief try to give me back some of his budget," replied Duncton.

"Of course, sir. As you say."

Aurelius rose, bowed, and executed a facing movement to leave. Duncton didn't stop him. The Master of Spies exited and gently shut the door. 

Lord Duncton rose and walked over to a mirror. He looked good. He wasn't as thin as he used to be, and he wasn't as young. His clothes fit better. His short hair was cut better, and the short beard was just the right length to accentuate his jaw. He didn't look tired, but he didn't look as energized as he once did. The solution to that was the same as his middle. Duncton turned and looked at his desk.

He was going to pay for this in the morning. He might be stealing time instead of money, but they were the same in the end. Duncton grabbed his gloves and crop, and left the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All versions updated as of 10/29/2015.


	3. Chapter 3

3

The rear of Seth's hansom folded into a bed, and the roof was canvas. Trui's belly pushed through, and two Gormen Manor's footsoldiers had to tie him down. Seth drove from horseback, riding the bay on the left of his mismatched team. He called them "Impatient" and "Grumpy." Satyr, who had come out to witness their departure, nodded his head slowly when he heard the doctor criticizing the beasts.

"What?" demanded Seth.

"Good luck and good speed," replied Satyr.

The doctor glared at him, but Impatient took off. Detecting the shift in Seth's posture, the bay was trotting before the doctor raised the crop, and Grumpy trotted along as soon as he figured out what to do. They vanished round the gate post. Satyr watched a couple riders follow them out and tried to put names to faces. One he didn't know. His House was too big. He made a point to learn more names.

Once Trui was gone Satyr went walking. The curious difficulty of walking in armor pleased him. Movement required deliberation, constantly demanding his attention for miniscule details, the slight curve of a spiral stairway, foot placement on flagstones, little unevenness in the floor where people naturally formed paths. From the main courtyard he passed into a foyer leading to the Formation Hall, noting a slight furrow that cut right, down a side corridor. It was detectable because he had to flex his ankles to stand upright, but he imagined it would be invisible in normal shoes. Satyr sniffed, and caught a strong hit of woodsmoke, lie, and soap. He thought about the plans of his house.

That must be a shortcut to quarters, he thought. Enough people took the main doors and down the side hallway to work a rut into the stone. Gormen Manor wasn't that old. He should put in another door. 

He picked the opposite direction and walked.

Soon he came to the barred doors of the vaults, and four men in plate snapped upright from the card table. 

Useless gesture, he thought. He had a card table here because he wanted them to play cards. Yes, it might be distracting, but no hand of poker was distracting enough four men would miss a ten foot door opening, not a door without hinges. The oak monster had to be unsealed and rolled, and that took twelve men. 

"At ease. Captain of the watch, report."

There was a pause. The guards looked at one of their number. He looked back and tried to disavow them, but now Satyr was looking at him. He was a short man with cuts on his face from shaving. 

"I'm not a captain, sir."

"The highest ranking soldier on a watch detail is called the captain of the watch. When an officer comes into the room, you report to him, and until you hand off your watch, you're the captain of the watch, even if your watch is just a room and a door," replied Satyr.

"Oh. It's quiet," said the guard. 

One of the other men, older, tall and lean, mouthed "All quiet" like he was prompting the boy, but no one but Satyr saw him. The other two followed without showing anything. The youth was probably getting his first taste of running a detail, that or he had rank or blood behind him. He didn't look commissioned. If he was in charge but didn't know that, he was probably bright, motivated, and callow. 

"Don't make a point of it to an actual officer," warned Satyr. "They might take it personally. If someone asks who's chief of the watch, or just who's in charge of the detail, don't quibble." 

"Of course, sir."

"Good. Now. I want that door opened so I can go inside. Round up a party to open the door. You can't go, so send someone."

"Right." The captain glanced at the older man. "Ve Pittin."

Pittin nodded and trotted off.

They passed a stiff and awkward silence. The hand of cards laid unplayed, and Satyr stared at the grain of the stones in the walls. Suddenly the young captain asked, "I thought Meteeze was the Captain of the Watch?"

Satyr looked over. "Yes. Meteeze's watch is the whole manor. He's the captain of all the watch. You- What's your name?"

"Vincent. Swordsman Vincent."

"Have you made your Ve?"

"Not yet, sir."

"You will. Meteeze is a captain in his own right. He's blooded, cousin to the Truis. His watch is the whole house. Not only does he outrank you in terms of captain to enlisted, his watch billet supercedes yours. Why are you-" Satyr indicated the room, everyone in it, and the door with a encompassing finger.

"Oh, it's Ve Pittin's watch, sir. Cpt Meteeze told him to teach me what was what, so the Ve said I should learn by doing."

"Good thinking," judged Satyr and lapsed into meandering tangent about the complexities of rank across billets. During blooded rank vs field rank, Satyr decided to take Pittin's chair and sat down, at which point the other three matched him. They talked until Ve Pittin returned, trotting with a dozen other guardsmen.

Ve Pittin, Satyr noted, had picked a brawny group. There would be no failure or difficulty in opening the door. Satyr guessed Pittin was the sort to make sure he didn't get embarrassed in front of rank. The Lord indicated the Ve should get that door open and got out of the way.

Eleven of them, with Pittin, removed their short swords and made a perfect tree of them, the twelfth standing guard over the weapons. Then Pittin slashed the knot that bound the seal, reporting, "Intact until cut, Vincent."

Vincent looked slightly confused, and Satyr guessed he was wondering if the Ve should address him with some form of rank. Vincent didn't say anything about it. Satyr decided he was a smart kid.

"Intact until cut, Ve Pittin," affirmed Vincent.

Pittin nodded, and the door detail swarmed the round portal in well practiced order. They practice this, thought Satyr. God bless them, and he stepped back to be impressed, idly playing with his gloves. 

Everything happened so smoothly it looked easy. Four beams in the wall had to be pulled in sequence, two on each side taking six men per beam, and only then was the seal clear. Those beams had to be laid flat in a particular manner to form a platform. The seal itself, a slab of iron-hearted oak, that corkscrewed into the ceiling hung like a dead weight. They slid it home like nothing. Then they put ropes on pegs into the anchor holes, heaved, and the door ground sideways on tracks. The pegs had to be yanked free at the precise moment to avoid being smashed into the stone frame, but left in long enough to be used for leverage. It was a tricky operation. Then rolling portal spun into a recessed notch in the wall, rolled up an incline, and by the time it rolled back towards the doorway, the right-side beams were back in place, barring the door in its hole.

Satyr smiled. "Good work, Ve Pittin."

"I'll pass your compliments to the men, sir."

Satyr smiled again and walked in. 

There was no money in the vault. Three partially disassembled ballistas, twenty feet long, were stacked by one wall. In the still air he could smell their oil. On the other wall stood a line of wax sealed pots, marked with either a barley or wheat head. He checked the ages. Two years. Perhaps time to cycle through. A line of cedar chests stood in an orderly file, and he broached the first one. It held the old Baron's pennant, the dragon parole with a sword for a tongue, white on black. Satyr unfolded it enough to see the whole feature, the dragon's empty eyes, and held it before him. This was one of the smaller ones and unrolled fully without brushing the ground. Satyr stared at it for a long time then sniffed it. 

Curiously, he poked around the chest and found bay leaves folded into the fabric. He held one up and sniffed it. It was still pungent. He lapsed into thought again, then suddenly hurried to fold the pennant up and put it away. He worked fast and slammed the chest shut. 

"Do any of you know how to tie a Gordian?" he asked the soldiers, all of whom clustered outside the vault looking in.

Half of them looked at Pittin, but the lanky man admitted he could not. Then one of the others, a brute of a man Pittin's height but built like an ox said he could in a slow, deep voice.

"Come here. Tie these chests off," Satyr ordered. "Use the cord for replacing the door seal."

"Yes, sir." 

Satyr stepped aside and watched, the guard's shoulders bigger than Satyr's in armor, but his thick fingers deft. One by one he went down the line, and sealed each, wetting the cord with his spit. Satyr waited until he was done with all of them before turning away to the black anvil at the back of the room. 

The anvil was cold steel, the kind found in any blacksmith's yard, with a rounded hump and an opposing spike. The spike had no point any more, but fine work or wire could be wound about it. It was knee tall, but mounted on a flat wooden dias, a cylinder of more oak, nailed together into a solid disc. The dias was heavier than the anvil, and yet both of them bowed.

They bulged in, towards the center, where a silver hammer with white wood handle lay. It was less than a foot long, with a squat, heavy head, one that might weigh a pound or two all told. Some wood formed a haft through the head, and around it all were many wraps of wire. Satyr didn't touch it. He squatted down, a production in plate, and kneeled so he could get close. The wire wasn't just wrapped, but braided with infinite complexity, steadily increasing the longer he looked at each. Each wrap he traced seemed at first to dip and dive alternatingly, but on inspection twisted and turned as well. The silver wire was very fine, and the layer of it was thin. The anvil spike pointed up on one side, the hump rising on the other, and the part that should be flat formed a fat bowl. Even the wood underneath the anvil bowed at the middle.

"Any of you forresters?" Satry asked.

"I am, sir," said Pittin.

"Come here."

The lanky man crossed the threshold and the others followed him, up to the ox-shouldered man still standing quietly by the chests. Pittin walked to Satyr as the other went through the process of standing upright. 

"Don't touch anything," said Satyr. "It will kill you. But lean close and look at this wood. Do you think...it's rotten?"

"No, sir. Still has some moisture in it but not much. No signs of worms or decay," replied Pittin. "Can't tell for sure without touching it. Is the wood dangerous?"

Satyr thought for a long time, then drew his knife. He held the tip over the wood and waited, then rapped the wooden pedestal a few times. It thunked. He pushed and pressed, and the edge barely bit.

"Are you giving it some...arm, sir?" asked Pittin.

"I am."

"Then it's not rotten."

Satyr nodded, staring at the distorted anvil. It seemed farther away in the middle, and then he rattled and clanked. Pittin had grabbed him.

"You were swaying, sir," said the Ve.

Satyr nodded. "Everyone out! Seal the door, and replace the seals! Careful. You don't want to get stuck in here with it."

"Or at all, sir," said Pittin.

Satyr glanced at him. The lanky man's face held a hint of a smile, the subtle question of the enlisted man for brass, 'Are we allowed to joke?'

"Not if you want to finish your hand of cards. Don't take all the captain of the watch's money," agreed Lord Satyr.

"Course not, sir. We're playing for duty. He'll be doing a lot of captaining this week."

Satyr nodded. Pittin arrayed his detail and set them to work, sealing the door in fast, sure steps. Nothing broke the rhythm. Then Satyr wished them all a good day, wished Vincent good luck, and marched off in a storm of crackle and crash.


	4. Chapter 4

Gormen Manor was an old labyrinthe of cutbacks and renovations, accreted by house Gormen through their many organs of builders until the Disagreement. It had lain empty until Satyr took it and began again the subtle growth of renovations. Miles Stanley hadn't even been a great house until the Disagreement. It had been a bank. When Duncton declared for himself, he'd added ramparts and gates, but Miles Stanley bore the traces of finance. It was the only house with warehouses attached. Its vaults were meant to be used, not just safe. Only the observatory on the top floor broke from the pattern of grey efficiency. The master astrologers and astronomers worked in friendly proximity within, and the apprentices fought over which discipline helped the city best without. Miles and Stanley themselves were both dead, and their graveyard was now an auction house.

House Royal was built for elegance. Gormen Manor bulged; Royal soared. Duncton stuffed offices in every available nook and cranny while his brothers ripped stone walls out and replaced them with glass. Devilish artificers of Dylath-Leen and Tyr had come to build the turrets and leaping gables or white rock laid with glass thread instead of mortar. They glowed in sunlight. The main hall, before the Grand Concourse, had a vaulted ceiling thirty feet high with glass panels between the buttresses. Powdered gemstones were mixed into the glass, mixing light so the ceiling was a prism. 

Van, eldest and illegitimate son of the Baron, was in a mortal duel and kept taking the other duelist's sword away.

"No. Put your thumb next to your finger. Don't press your thumb against the handle."

"Death before dishonor!"

Swish.

"You can't move your wrist like that, and if I parry, you're going to break your hand."

Swish, swish, slice. 

"Would you stop?" the bastard muttered.

Van stepped sideways, punched Regulus in the knuckles, and caught the blade as it fell from his spasming hand. "See? Like this. You can either put your thumb on top of the index finger or overlapping it. It's better on top, but a little overlap-"

Regulus drew his belt knife and lunged. Van stepped out of the way.

"Illegal move," declared Mandrake, High Judge of Wilno, and second eldest bastard in the land.

"Waive grievance."

Regulus lunged again.

"Still illegal."

"Still waiving."

"He's still holding it wrong," muttered Mandrake.

"That's not my fault!" yelled Van."I'm trying!"

With the long knife Regulus chased Van around the arena, the prince parrying a few times as an ignored teaching moment, and then frustratedly throwing Regulus' blade back into the scabbard on his hip. 

"One point, center control," judged Mandrake, scratching something on a note card.

Van just looked at him.

"He's taking the center. That's a point. You waived the knife penalty," said Mandrake.

In Van's moment of irritation, Regulus closed, and slashed, but his arm got caught in Van's cloak. The prince tried to pull him out, but the baker seized his hand and bit him. 

The prince was wearing metal gloves, and Regulus broke three of his teeth. 

"First blood. I accept satisfaction," said Van.

"You can't accept satisfaction; you're behind."

"What!?" Van yanked the knife out of his cloak and stuffed it back in Regulus' sheath, passing the other's hand as the baker drew his shortsword again. He swung like a lumberjack, and ended bent over, breathing hard with his hands on his knees.

Behind him, Van waved the shortsword at Mandrake. "That's bad scoring."

"He had center control. You were properly informed of your grievances and waived them."

"You cannot, in truth, tell me he's winning."

"He's up on points."

Regulus drew his knife again. He lunged, Van put his sword back, and a flap of the prince's cloak landed under the baker's foot. It twisted unfairly. The man tumbled, rolled, and crashed into a bannister.

"Point for out of bounds," said Mandrake.

"And I accept satisfaction."

"You can't. The previous point is no longer valid."

"I know. He stabbed himself."

Mandrake looked. When Regulus had fell, he'd cut his thumb open, and it was a shallow but freely bleeding wound that gushed blood.

"I'm not sure that counts," mused Mandrake.

"It's blood. I'm satisfied. It counts."

"I'm not satisfied!" yelled Regulus.

"As the litigant, you're no longer open to making statements on the record. The purpose of trial by combat is so actions speak louder than words, but by your actions you are judged," explained Mandrake.

"That's the point of trial by combat," added Van.

"I need to check the book on this," decided Mandrake and opened Connell's Dictionary of Procedure. 

"Stopping acting an ass and fight," demanded Regulus, who was again panting for breath.

"You're doing very well, but the judge is checking the rules. Be respectful."

"It counts," said Mandrake and perfunctorily slapped his lectern three times. "As defendant has accepted satisfaction while tied with litigant, trial is concluded, via hung justice. To the Gods we entrust our honor." 

Both princes amen-ed.

"You're going to hang me?" demanded the baker.

"Legal term. No one wins. You're charged two marks for court costs, and a mark for bleeding on my floor. Pay the clerk."

"I refuse! I demand-"

"You can't demand trial by combat for civil penalties. That would be ridiculous. Pay the clerk on your way out."

The brothers Royal started walking for the door.

"Wait! What about-"

"Hung trial. Only the gods can judge you," said Van over his shoulder. "You're free to go."

"Other than your fine of three marks. Pay the clerk!" added Mandrake.

They passed through a pair of ebony doors. 

"You know, he's broke," said Van.

"By an odd twist of fate, three marks is exactly the amount the clerks pay for surrendered swords," replied Mandrake.

"Odd coincidence."

"Truly."

The halls of House Royal were thin and tall, vaulted and arched. Much of the ceiling was sheets of mica that passed light but not air, allowing the torches to be laid above. They were mounted with hidden mirrors, and the hallways had a diffuse, ethereal light. Before the brothers had made it to the armory, they were overtaken by a middle-aged woman with fast strides. She was brutally fit and dressed stark. The skirts which were all but required of her were lean. She arrested them, near a side corridor.

"Sire. Sire. News," she said. It was unclear which sire was which.

"The Trui case? We heard. There's nothing we can do," said Mandrake.

"Shame. Trui's a good man," said Van. 

"Sire?" she asked, curiously.

"Trui. He's a good man," said Van.

"Prepare yourself for bereavement," said Mandrake.

Van shrugged. "If anyone can help him, it's Seth. Listen to him, and a splinter is fatal. I'm sure someone, somewhere, once died of a splinter. But I doubt it was one of Seth's patients. They have a odd habit of surviving things."

"How odd?" asked Mandrake.

"As odd as the other coincidences today."

"Interesting."

"My lords," interrupted the woman. "That's very interesting, but it's not why I'm here."

"Apologies, Madam Heath. You were saying?" said Van.

"My agents in the north send word the wolves have found an alchemist."

The two brothers stared at her, and neither one said a word.

The brothers were twins, not identical, but they looked so alike as to be confusing. They were the same height and had the same eyes, grey. Van had brown hair, almost blonde, and Mandrake had black. They both shaved. Mandrake was leaner, faster, and his eyes weren't as friendly. He wore judgement well, but it put people off. His colors were black and red, and Van's white and blue. They were both armed and armored, but wore light leather under clothing, far from Satyr's steel skin. 

Seeing she should continue, Madam Heath did. 

"I have listeners in the north, and they have sent word of wolf howls from the sevenfold stair. They're heading north."

"How did you learn this?" asked Van, almost whispering.

"It would take too long to explain."

"We've got time," he replied.

She sighed. "Sire, I'm politely telling you that I'll lie if you press me for details. I'd rather not."

"That's unfortunate," he said slowly.

Heath did not look concerned.

"Be that as it may, why are they going north?" asked Mandrake. "Where are they going in the north?"

"To Malice, my lords, they run to Malice."


End file.
